by Candice Hern
He kissed her once more, quickly, while he positioned himself above her. He looked down into her eyes, wide and uncertain, and wished he could have done better by her. But it was too late. He needed her now. Now!
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and then plunged himself full length inside her. Like a gauche schoolboy, he came after only a few swift thrusts.
Only when his own groan subsided did he realize Verity had also cried out, but not in pleasure. Even now, she whimpered slightly and he realized what he’d done. Good God, she’d been a virgin. A virgin? Was it possible? Son of a bitch!
He held himself still and looked at her. Her eyes were closed and tears slid down her cheeks onto the floor beneath her. Her mouth was contorted in pain—my God, how he must have ripped through her—and she tried valiantly not to whimper.
Bloody hell. He’d been afraid of stripping her of the last shred of her dignity, and in the end had stripped her of much more. A cad to the core.
She held herself rigid and seemed unable to breathe. “Goddammit, woman.” Lust dissipated, he rolled off her in disgust.
He sat up and turned his back to her while he fastened his breeches, cursing at the missing button that left the fall flapping open at one corner. Verity lay silent behind him, like a wounded bird, not moving.
And so he had lived up to his dastardly reputation after all, taking a virgin like she was a whore—quickly, fiercely, painfully. Lord, how he must have hurt her, this proud young woman who only sought to offer him comfort. Typically, he thought only of himself, his own needs, and ending up using and abusing those dear to him.
Yes, she had indeed become dear to him. In the sweet, shy way in which she offered her friendship, she had worked her way under his skin, despite all intentions to keep his distance and stay uninvolved. He had just blown those good intentions all to hell. Once again, he had ruined everything he touched.
James heard the sounds of movement behind him. He turned to find her sitting up, her face as blank as an egg, hair disheveled, skirts still bunched up around her thighs. His eyes were drawn to a deep red stain on the pale yellow muslin of her dress. The sight ignited his anger, and he wanted to shout. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to strike out.
“What game do you play, madam,” he said, “that you hide your virginity behind this mock tale of a marriage?”
She looked away from him, and in a small, tremulous voice said, “You are m-mistaken. My marriage was real and I was not a…a v-virgin.”
Anger coursed through his blood and bones and took full possession of him. He grabbed her skirts so roughly she recoiled, as if she thought he might strike her. He held out the bloodstained fabric. “Then how do you explain this?”
Verity twisted out of his grasp and adjusted her skirts. “It is not what you think,” she said. “It is merely my…my time of month. I have been…married. It was not my first time.”
James did not know why, but she was lying. She had been a virgin, there was no question of it. Damn her, why was she playing this game with him?
He stood and noticed for the first time that his chair was on its side. He righted it, turned it away from the fire, and sank into it. He watched as Verity rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. The stain on the back stood out like a beacon. She reached up and fingered her hair. The chignon had come loose and bobbed limply at the back of her neck. One untidy lock had escaped and fell over her left shoulder. There was a rent in the neckline of her dress. She looked for all the world like a woman who had been ravished.
He could not bear the sight of what he’d done. “Please leave,” he said.
She walked slowly toward the door without a word. He could tell by the way she moved—awkwardly, cautiously—that she was still in some pain. “Wait,” he said, and she stopped. He could not just let her go like that, hurt and confused and damaged beyond repair. He forced himself to say the words that needed to be said. “I am sorry for what happened.” His tone was clipped and gruff but it was all he could manage without falling to pieces. “I promise it won’t happen again. I swear I shall not touch you again.”
Verity squared her shoulders, cocked her head at that prideful angle he’d seen so often, and swept out of the room, dignified as a duchess. He hoped to God no one saw her. Despite the proud carriage, she looked a mess. A bloody mess.
James rested his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into unsteady hands. He thought for a moment that he’d never been more miserable in all his life, but that was not true. He had spent the better part of his life making misery for himself. This was just one more chapter in his infamous history: cowardice, murder, and now ravishment.
Was it ravishment? She had not fought him. She had never once asked him to stop. From what he could remember, she had been just as involved as he was, wanting it as badly as he did.
But she had been a virgin.
Hell and damnation, what was he supposed to do now? What if he’d made her pregnant? The notion sent a shudder down his spine. Should he offer to marry her? But she was not free to marry. Despite those two hundred pounds, she was still legally married.
Or was she? Had she ever really been married at all? If so, then why the devil had she still been a virgin? His head began spinning with speculations of collusion and deception and entrapment, of schemes and plots to entangle him…in what? If there had been some master plan, it was a poor one that didn’t make much sense. Russell had absconded with the two hundred pounds almost two months ago. Besides, neither of them could have known he would be at Gunnisloe that day, or that he would make that blasted offer. If they had been involved in some entrapment scheme, why wait until now?
Of course, she had to wait for him to make the first move. He had almost done it once before, and she had been ready and willing that time as well, just as she had been tonight.
James lifted his head and swore aloud to the room. “No, no, no!” He pounded his fist on the chair arm so hard he surely bruised it. No, he did not believe it. He was spinning fantasies to remove the blame from himself. He did not know why she lied, but he could not make himself believe Verity was deceitful by nature. She was one of the most straightforward people he’d ever known. Everything about her was genuine, from the fear she’d exhibited at the auction and in the days following, to the comfort she had offered tonight.
He rose to his feet and began to pace the room. Why had she lied? Why maintain the foolish pretense that he had not ripped her virginity from her like a raging bull? Why pretend he had not caused her pain?
His steps came to a halt at the library table where a full teacup sat in its saucer. Verity’s tea. She must have been bringing it to him when she found him—what? Cowering before the fire?
He picked up the odiferous brew and all at once understanding slammed into him like a howitzer. Verity tried to ease suffering, whether it be a villager’s toothache or his own insomnia. He did not like to consider what she might have seen of him tonight while he fought off his familiar demons. But she had offered herself up as a means of easing his torment. She had given herself freely. She was too concerned with his pain to allow him to know of her own. She protected him by pretending to be unharmed.
James spun around and flung the cup and saucer into the grate, where they smashed into a thousand pieces. How he loathed himself for what he’d done. How could he possibly make amends to this sweet woman who was only trying to help him in a moment of weakness? And then he had lashed out at her in anger as though she had done something wrong.
Verity had bestowed upon him the gift of her virginity, and he did not misunderstand the generosity of that gesture. It nearly broke his heart, assuming he still had one, to know what she had done for him, and he would forever honor her for that unselfish gift.
And he would treat it as a gift. He would not, would never, ask it of her again. He had done enough to compromise her proud dignity. He would do nothing further to erode it.
What was he to do with her, then, as she lived under his roo
f every day, ate meals with him, rode with him, and brought him foul-tasting tea each night? They could never marry—
The realization burst upon him like an electric storm. He stopped pacing. Marriage to Verity. By God, he would marry her if he could. She had already worked her way into his household, his village, and at least a small corner of his heart. There was nothing he’d rather do than spend his life with her.
He’d never meant to let another woman into his life. His relationship with Rowena had been troublesome and volatile from its youthful beginning. But he had loved her with the consuming passion of first love, and in the end he’d killed her. James never meant to allow love into his heart again.
He wasn’t prepared to allow himself to love Verity. In any case, he was not ready to admit that what he felt for her was love. But if she were free and if she would have him, he would marry her in a moment.
He allowed the idea to roll around inside his head for a while, touching upon the possibilities of divorce and annulment. But it was pointless. He had nothing to offer but a soiled life, riddled with cowardice and culpability. Verity would end up despising him, just as Rowena had.
James poured himself a brandy, brought the decanter with him, and sank down into his chair again. He hoped to God his lack of control would not result in a child. The thought terrified him more than almost anything else. How could he be depended on to keep a child safe when he still lost untold hours during blackouts over which he had no control, and during which he had no idea what he might have done?
He pushed aside all thoughts of fatherhood, as he always did, for they only conjured up painful images of Trystan, with his big, trusting blue eyes and a mop of blond hair that curled in all directions. James had barely known his son but had loved him desperately. When he returned from Spain, instead of letting the child into his life, he had kept Trystan at a distance. His blackouts were deeper and more frequent then, and he had feared what might happen. He had been right.
James took a deep swallow and let the brandy burn a path down his throat and warm his stomach. How he wished he could have been worthy of a woman like Verity Osborne. She had such courage, dignity, compassion, not to mention beauty. Did she realize how beautiful she was? He doubted it. Ah, but he could never be worthy. He had condemned himself forever in her eyes as a callous, rutting brute.
He downed the glass and poured another. What a worthless excuse for a man he was. He ought to have ended it years ago. In the days after the fire, he had wanted nothing more than to do so. Why should he be allowed to live when he had killed the two people he loved most in the world? If he had any strength of character, he would do so now before he caused any further harm.
But he had not the strength. He never had. He made excuses instead. He poured a third glass and recounted them. His people needed him. The mine needed him. Winter had arrived and the pumps would be pushed to their limit during the rains. The cottagers would need fuel and food and medicine. He must look after the land, since he no longer had a steward. There was Agnes, too. As much as she hated him, she had nowhere else to go, no one else to depend on. And Verity depended on him now, too.
There were endless excuses why he could not take the easy way out. But James knew the real excuse lay in cowardice. Everything about him was based on cowardice. He had never been strong enough to do what any man of honor would have done years ago.
No honor. No courage. No heart. Only another empty glass to refill in hopes of dulling the pain, drinking himself into oblivion and forgetfulness.
Tears soaked the pillow slip beneath Verity’s cheek. She had cried and cried—for the pain he had caused, for the anger he had flung at her, for her own inadequacy, for the ruins of her life.
When the flow of tears had ebbed at last, she rolled onto her back and pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes. She ought not be so shattered, having known all along how it would end. She had allowed her need to comfort him to overwhelm the knowledge that she could not. Not in that way.
Verity swung her legs over the side of the bed, rose, and walked slowly toward the dressing table. The ache between her legs had subsided somewhat, but she was still very conscious of it, of what had happened there, and she moved stiffly. One glance at herself in the mirror and she turned away. She looked a fright. She reached for the tapes at the back of her dress. After much fumbling she was finally able to slip out of the bodice and allowed the dress to fall to her feet. When she reached to pick it up she saw the reddish stain between the folds of yellow muslin.
A little moan of despair escaped her lips before she balled up the garment and tossed it into the grate. It began to smolder but did not catch fire. A small bellows leaned against the hearth. Verity picked it up and pumped several times before the dress ignited with an explosive rush. She watched as it blackened and curled and finally fell to pieces. There would be no evidence of what had occurred downstairs.
James had been more furious over her supposed virginity than her other inadequacies. How could he know for sure? Was it possible for a man to be certain about such a thing? She had explained away the blood; how could he possibly have known?
It did not matter. Verity would never admit the truth to him, or to anyone. She had never told a living soul that her marriage had not been consummated. To do so would mean admitting to the humiliation of her wedding night, admitting the fact of her undesirability, admitting a man could never really want her in that way.
It had been difficult enough to admit to herself, but over the years she had come to accept her shortcomings. She did not dwell on it, and she had become resigned to a life without physical love. Or children.
Until she had come to Pendurgan.
When she found herself reluctantly attracted to James, the old failures returned to haunt her. Every time her body reacted to him—to his touch, his kiss, a look, his mere presence—Verity had been reminded of all she could never be.
The extent of the pain the act had caused surely vindicated the truth of Gilbert’s implications. There was something wrong with her, physically, that made sexual relations difficult, if not impossible, and made her sexually undesirable.
Tonight had been an accident of circumstance. James had been needy, and she had been the only one there. Any woman would have done. For that moment, though, Verity had been available and, God forgive her, willing.
She walked to the basin stand and poured water into the bowl. The water was icy cold and she relished its prickly sting as she splashed her face with it.
In the deepest reaches of her heart she had hoped that she might be allowed to experience what other women experienced routinely. For one fleeting moment, she actually believed she could be desirable to a man, to know what it was like to have a man want her.
She rinsed her swollen eyes one final time, then rubbed her face roughly with a towel, hoping to dissipate the last vestiges of foolishness. The sweet moment she had coveted had been fleeting, indeed, for as soon as James had entered her—stretching and tearing so she thought she must be ripped to shreds—he could hardly wait to be done with it. Had she somehow caused him pain as well? He had cursed her, then rolled away in disgust, unable even to look at her.
How could she have pretended it would be different this time? How could she have allowed herself to respond to his kisses, to believe they spoke of desire rather than simple need?
Worse yet, how could she have allowed herself to fall in love with a man who could never want her, who tonight vowed he would never touch her again?
Verity sat, carefully and slowly, on the stool in front of the dressing table and began to unpin her hair. She had lost several hairpins downstairs and the tight coil at her nape had become an untidy mess. She let it fall down her back and began the nightly ritual of brushing its thick length.
She remembered speaking with Edith when she was very young, about her dreams for the future, dreams of a home in the country, a husband, children. Ordinary things dreamed by most young girls. But it had all gone w
rong somehow.
There had been nothing ordinary about her marriage to Gilbert, who, after being violently ill on their wedding night when he’d attempted to consummate the marriage, had abandoned her in a tiny, ramshackle house for more than two years, never to come to her bed again, seldom setting eyes on her until he’d come to take her to Cornwall. There had been nothing ordinary about being led to auction like a dray nag. And there was certainly nothing ordinary about falling in love with a man who needed her but didn’t want her.
Verity stopped brushing and stared at herself in the mirror. “Stop it!” she said aloud and wagged the brush at her reflection. “Stop it. Stop it.”
She hated it when she gave in to self-pity, even for a moment. She had never allowed the unexpected turns in her life to get her down, and refused to let the world see her as a victim. She had even adjusted to her new life at Pendurgan, however uncertain its nature. She had never been much of a fighter, but neither had she worn her disappointments on her sleeve. She quietly tucked them away and went about her life, head held high, as if they had never happened.
Just as she had told no one of her disastrous wedding night, neither would she speak of what had happened between her and James. Her love for him would remain a precious, close-guarded secret—unspoken, unacknowledged, unrequited.
There were, however, other ways in which she could act upon her love for him.
After what she’d witnessed tonight, when he’d been in the strange trancelike state, she realized James needed a friend more than ever. Not only to help him overcome his guilt and grief and shame, but also to help him rebuild his life, reestablish his ancestral position in the district, restore his good name. Anyone who saw him immobilized during such an episode could not possibly blame him for what happened in the Pendurgan fire. More likely, they would sympathize with the extraordinary pain he must surely have suffered from the deaths of Rowena and the children, when he realized he had not been able to help them.
It was sheer pigheaded male arrogance that drove him to foster his own black reputation. There was nothing to stop her, though, from trying to repair more than six years of damage. It should be easy enough to do as she moved about the villages with her herbs and remedies. The local people had begun to accept her and, she believed, respect her. She would begin talking to them about James. Just a word here and there, but over time she hoped those words would take root and wipe out all the old bad feelings that had spread like a thicket through the community.
